


Daily Correspondent Drabbles & Ficlets

by ErinPtah



Series: Fake News Drabbles and Ficlets [3]
Category: Fake News FPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Closet Sex, F/F, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Group Sex, Phoenixes, Polyamory, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2006-12-29
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinPtah/pseuds/ErinPtah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ongoing collection of shortfics featuring the correspondents of <em>The Daily Show</em>. (And the odd appearance by Jon and "Stephen", as events warrant.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fresh Twists

The interview with the senator is not going well. That is, she's being accurate and reasonable and intelligent, which means Samantha Bee can't think of any clever put-downs, and the audience isn't going to laugh.

Time to fall back on an old standard. The senator's female, but that'll just give it a fresh twist.

Sam interrupts a thoughtful discourse on universal health care with an indignant "Are you looking at my boobs?"

The senator gives her an amused smile. "Why, yes," she replies. "Yes, I am."

Sam doesn't miss a beat. "Want to get a cup of coffee later?" she counters, with a lascivious wink. This isn't the twist she was expecting, but she's a comedian; she takes what she gets and runs with it. 

The next morning, when she wakes up with a very congressional pantsuit strewn across her bedroom floor, Sam wonders if perhaps she ran too far.


	2. Afterwards, Wyatt Was Never Able To Look At Salad Tongs The Same Way Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wyatt/Kristen/John-O/Sam/Jason(/Aasif/???). The prompt demanded something NC-17. This is what I ended up writing instead. ([Illustrated version](http://ptahrrific.dreamwidth.org/108940.html).)

"Dude," said Wyatt.

He searched for another word to help cover the full sweep of his emotions about the situation, but that seemed to be it.

"Dude," he said again, just for good measure.

"Are - are those _my_ boxers?" stammered John from next to him, pointing vaguely at the ceiling fan.

"Nope," mumbled Kristen sleepily. Her hair fanned out along Wyatt's shoulder, where she had started to doze off without even bothering to shed her thigh-high leather boots first. Bits of her curls were tickling his nose. "We threw yours in the sink after they got fondue on them, remember?"

Sam stirred, then leaned over the edge of the table to look down at them. "Really? I thought those were Jason's."

"Can't be," mused Wyatt with a lazy smile. "We used Jason's to gag Aasif, remember?"

"Oh yeah." Sam started to relax, then wrinkled her nose. "Did we ever _un_ gag Aasif?"

There was a moment of uneasy silence.

"Someone better go look for him," declared Sam, in a tone that firmly suggested that _she_ was quite comfortable where she was, thank you very much.

"Well, I'm not going anywhere until somebody finds my glasses," sulked John. "Also, the key to these things." He jiggled his wrist, rattling the handcuffs that attached him to the break room fridge.

"Guess it's up to me," sighed Wyatt, sliding out from under Kristen - gently, so that he didn't wake her up as he moved her head to rest on the shoulder of the lightly-snoring Jason. "Uh, are there any clothes in this room that _aren't_ made of leather?"

With a rustle of fabric, Sam threw the maid outfit at him.


	3. Prawn Today, Hair Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from colbertstark6: "Irresistible."

"Well, go on, look closer."

"Uh. What?"

Even when Kristen snorts, it's in the girliest, giggliest way possible. "Don't lie. You've been checking out my hair all morning."

"Have not," says Olivia automatically. "I was...uh...silently yet caustically judging you from afar."

"And judging me to be _awesome_ , right?"

Kristen holds up a hand, grinning all the while. Olivia responds with the paltriest excuse for a high-five she's ever given, which leaves Kristen so undaunted she looks as if she's never met a daunt in her life.

"Anyway, I was just saying, you can judge up close if you like." She perches on the edge of Olivia's desk, narrowly avoiding sitting on the stapler, and tosses her curls as she leans forward. It's a move that would leave anyone else's hair a tangled mess; on her it just layers itself coquettishly over one eye.

And, let's be frank here, it's not like Olivia doesn't feel a little tug towards those curls every time she sees them. Maybe she's better off taking the chance now, instead of holding back and holding back and then one day snapping and tackling Kristen's head in the middle of rehearsal.

"If anyone walks in, this was your idea," she warns, and slides her hands through the soft brown locks. They smooth gently back to frame Kristen's heart-shaped face, tumbling fluffy and soft through Olivia's fingers.

She doesn't notice that she's stretching upwards, subtle and inexorable as a sunflower questing for the light, until Kristen tilts further down. It's all the cue Olivia needs to press her nose to the crown of Kristen's head, burying her cheeks in the softness, breathing in--

"Bleagh!" she yelps, throwing herself backward. "What are you washing this in? Dead fish?"

"Oh, right." Kristen blinks. "I spent last week with Larry and the film crew on a shrimping trawler. I guess it hasn't all worn off yet."

Olivia wishes she could see her own face right then, because she's sure the grimace is epic. "All right, all right! Point made. I will stop obsessing over your hair."

With a giggle Kristen hops off the desk. "Oh, you don't have to _stop_ ," she chides, waving the thought away. "Just hold out for a couple weeks so the extra-strength shampoo has a chance to work."


	4. E.B.B.G.A.S-T-T-F.F.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Fixed" from politicette. Refers to [Olivia's charity work with bears](http://www.g4tv.com/videos/43491/best-of-olivia-09-ebbgasf-psa-video/#video-43485), which clearly foreshadows her destiny to one day have "Stephen" as an arch-nemesis. (Or at least a foil.)

"Olivia! Just give me a minute, I'll be right out."

"Sure," said Olivia, and actually took half a step back before it sank in. "Hang on, this is my office! What are you even doing here?"

Colbert's head whipped up from the stack of posters on her desk, hand frozen midway through a decisive stroke of Magic Marker. For a moment he stared like a cornered rabbit, then flew back into action, writing in furious double-time.

"Stop that!" Olivia lunged for the posters. Colbert snatched the whole pile out of her way, but clearly wasn't expecting her to keep going, kicking a stapler to the floor and getting a fistful of tie for her efforts. "Hah! Now give--those--!"

He slipped. She, inevitably, came tumbling after. Two heads narrowly avoided colliding with solid brick as the air filled with paper, surprisingly loud before it fluttered down to form a gentle blanket over every available surface.

Bracing herself on Colbert's sternum, Olivia pushed herself up and grabbed the nearest poster. Sure enough, it was one of the advertisements for her beloved charity, E.B.B.G.A.S.F. Where the full name was spelled out, the word "Sandwich" had been Sharpied over, and the phrase "Shotgun To The Face" meticulously inked beneath it.

"I fixed them for you," said Colbert, flicking aside another of the posters to reveal his arched eyebrows. "You're welcome."


	5. When You Love Someone (And/Or Their Giant Head)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For gaudy_night, prompt "Lovers". Pairs up just about everyone on TDS circa 2011, with bonus Tad/Bobby.
> 
> Clips referenced: [Kristen](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lvd6MBsiDBo); [Larry and Aasif](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/thu-october-28-2010/indecision-2010---negative-campaigning); [Tad](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/391691/july-12-2011/heterosexual-accountability-buddy); [appletinis](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/156067/february-06-2008/better-know-a-lobby---gay-lobby-pt--1); [BriWi](http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/tue-april-10-2007/giant-head-of-brian-williams).

Around February, Wyatt stocks up on boxes of candy hearts. For the rest of the year John finds rows of them lined up on his desk, snippets of romantic verbiage strung together for an effect that is almost like haiku. Increasingly stale haiku.

Also, the first letter of each phrase spells out a dirty word. John's perversely pleased when Wyatt runs out of American curses and starts sliding into British.

***

Kristen finds a fantastic family-owned hole-in-the-wall pie place, and refuses to tell Olivia where it is. That way she can have a gift-wrapped slice of a different house specialty waiting on Olivia's desk every week she's in town.

One day, she shows up at her own office to find that not only has Olivia saved all the ribbon, it's been strung together and tied in a neat bow on top of a bale of hay.

"What?" says Olivia, shrugging. "I have it on good authority that you're a horse."

***

Jason throws things at Sam.

Sam throws them back, just as hard.

When Al asks if someone shouldn't try to get between them, one of the writers suggests, with a prizewinning straight face, that he try it. If he hasn't learned to recognize Bee-Jones foreplay yet, he's about to get a memorable lesson.

***

Aasif clucks under his breath when Larry's the only one close enough to hear, and tucks his arms into awkward flapping wings when nobody else is looking.

When Larry finally grabs him, slams him against the wall, and starts kissing him with an inch of his life, most of the observers think it came out of nowhere (although they agree that it's been a long time coming).

***

In a babbled jumble of words, one of which for some reason is "appletini," Tad explains that he was only inspecting Bobby's plumbing.

There's a tense moment when it looks to Bobby like Stephen isn't going to swallow it. Tad's less worried. He's pretty sure Stephen will swallow anything.

***

Josh offers to split his hoagie.

For the Giant Head of Brian Williams, it's love at first sight.


	6. You, The Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Power", with sub-prompts for specific superpower/character combinations. Special guest appearance by real!Stephen.

**Teleportation (Jessica)**

This is ridiculous. She's got all the boxes unpacked, and okay, her stuff's not exactly _organized_ , but in this glorified closet of an apartment there is seriously not room to lose something. So where...?

She thinks about it a second longer, double-checks under the sink, then 'ports back home. "Mom? Have you seen--?"

Her mother, relaxing in the same armchair as ever, doesn't look up from her book. "Mr. Wuffles is on your bed, dear."

"Thanks!" exclaims Jessica, and pops upstairs to grab the ragged stuffed cat before 'porting back to New York.

 

**Mind-Reading (real!Stephen)**

He tries not to abuse it, honestly. He doesn't scan for sensitive information; he doesn't share details under a person's real name. But there's one class of thought that's too good not to look for.

There's a chart on a whiteboard in the _Report_ break room, updated at the end of every week. A list of issues runs down the right side, while at the top is a scrawl in red marker: _What Guests Think Stephen's Actual Opinions Are About..._

His staff gets a good laugh out of quite a few of the trends. Sometimes they tease him about it. Other times the writers and producers use it to guide the show, bringing down the satire harder on an issue that they think guests think he thinks too gently about.

The kicker, of course, is that they're not always right either.

(Sometimes he fantasizes about breaking into one of the facilities where they keep less-than-ethical readers. Whatever else they might say or do to him, at least they'd _know_ him.)

 

**Immortality (Olivia)**

As usual, she leaves her old home on foot. No tickets, no public transportation, no people to identify her at train stations and on crowded roads. They'll report her missing, and eventually (because they know she's old, though they have no idea _how_ old) write her off as dead.

It was harder to line up a couple to adopt her this time. People who believe in phoenixes at all, much less consider them lucky, are getting rarer and rarer. But she did find one, and their letters are in her pocket: one of the few things she didn't leave behind.

She's walking through a cattle ranch in Colorado when she somehow picks up company, in the form of a curly-haired seven-year-old with a sidekick collie. "I live over there," the kid announces, pointing across the fields with the help of a handy stick. "Where do _you_ live? Are you a cattle rustler? You don't look like a cattle rustler. Where are you going? Are you lost? You can come in and see a map if you wanna."

"Hold your horses, kid...."

"I don't have horses. All I have is a dog and some sheeps. My name's Kristen and my dog's name is Teddy and my sheeps' names are Laverne and Shirley. What's your name?"

"Li Hua," she says shortly, recalling a name from a couple of rebirths back. "And _calm down, Kristen_. I'm going to a very nice place in Oklahoma and I know exactly where it is."

"Are you walking? That's a long walk. Especially for someone really old like you. Are you going to the bus stop? The bus stop's that way, not this way. Are you from Vietnam? Your name sounds like it's from Vietnam. Did you walk from there too?"

Is she going to be this much of a pest when she's that age again? She sure hopes not. "Not from Vietnam. And yes, I'm walking, you got a problem with that? Now go away. You annoy me too much, maybe you make me burst into flames ahead of schedule."

(A few years down the road, the newly-dubbed Lisa kind of regrets yelling at the kid. But it's too late to go back and apologize now. Kristen's probably forgotten it by this point, and even if she hasn't, what are the odds of Lisa ever being able to find her again?)

 

**Fire control (Wyatt)**

"You wanted to see me, boss?"

"C'mon, Wyatt, you make me sound like some deranged CEO-supervillain. I just wanted to say hi. Congratulate you on your last field piece. Ask how it went."

"Uh-huh," says Wyatt, not impressed. "Let me guess. You also want me to reheat your coffee."

Jon tugs at his collar, sheepish. "Well, you know, since you're here...would you mind?"

Wyatt groans, picks up the _Indecision 2012_ mug, balances it in his fingers, and conjures a small flame over the palm of his hand. It only takes a couple of seconds for the dark liquid to start steaming.

Honestly, he's pretty much cool with this; it saves the building on a ton of petty heating costs, which pays out in more perks, including nicer hotels when they're doing cross-country interviews. It's just fun to make people squirm. Jon in particular. He's got one of those faces.

"You need anything else?" he asks, doodling spiral afterimages in the air with one lit-up finger. "Leftovers warmed up? More hot water in the shower? Obnoxious guest you need to take down a couple pegs?"

Jon nearly chokes on his coffee. "Please don't scare the guest again. Uh, no, I think that'll do it. Oh! I wanted to congratulate you."

"On my last bit? You just did that."

"No! What? Like I would only have thought of one thing to praise about you. No, _this_ time I was thinking of...uh...." He stares at Wyatt's manifestly unimpressive plaid shirt for a couple of seconds, then aims his search higher, at the growth Wyatt's been cultivating for the past year. "...your hair! It's looking very...round."

Wyatt throws up his hands. "Man, you just had to say that, didn't you?"

"Sorry? Is 'round' one of the words we're supposed to avoid now?"

"It's not the word, dude, it's the compliment! Murphy's law is out to get me. Every time anybody says something nice about my hair, I accidentally burn it, like, the next day. It's happened to my beard three times now." Wyatt checks his fingers for sparks or stray ash, blows the tips off just in case, then pats his poor doomed afro into shape. "He didn't mean it, baby. Stay strong, okay? Stay strong."


	7. Ten Wyatt & Jessica AUs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing prompt for the following AUs:  
> 01\. Wild West  
> 02\. Cyberpunk  
> 03\. Shapeshifters  
> 04\. Pirates  
> 05\. …In SPACE!!  
> 06\. Born Another Gender  
> 07\. Schoolfic  
> 08\. Police/Firefighters  
> 09\. Urban Fantasy  
> 10\. Harem

**01\. Wild West**

She rides into town on a boxcar from Dallas, with the clothes on her back, four dollars to her name, and presumably one hell of a tale that she ain't no ways about to share.

Wyatt doesn't have much more, to tell the truth. But he does have a spare bit of floor, and folks like them got to stick together.

 

**02\. Cyberpunk**

"But you can call me msjwilly."

" _The_ msjwilly? Who cracked the Newsnet d-base?"

"Yeah, that was me. What about it?"

"I just thought...you were a guy," says Wyatt, in what must be the least smooth move in the history of motion.

Jessica rolls her eyes. "This keeps happening! I don't understand why! Does the 'Ms.' not tip people off?"

"Uh, I don't know about anyone else, but I think I was focusing on the 'willy'."

 

**03\. Shapeshifters**

When Wyatt confesses to still being kind of bummed that he and Jon can no longer be beard brothers, Jessica reworks her jaw structure and walks around with a full Garibaldi for a week.

 

**04\. Pirates**

They're curled up on Jessica's couch, her laptop open across her knees, BitTorrent humming merrily away.

"You know," says Wyatt, "when you said 'piracy', I was at least expecting to get a fancy hat."

 

**05\. ...In SPACE!!**

When the Federation starship _Daily_ loses track of Wyatt among an unexplored civilization that hasn't made first contact, Jessica insists on leading the search party. If the local culture turns out to be hostile, she wants to get in a few punches personally.

They find Wyatt on a throne.

It's not a hostile culture. It is, however, a culture where one's prominence and prestige are entirely determined by the magnificence of one's beard. And all the aliens have way straight hair.

"Fine, I'll go," says Wyatt, when at last Jessica convinces him to turn down the offer of high kingship. "But next time you get wasted in an alien cantina and throw half our platinum reserves at some polka-dotted stripper, I'm not bailing you out."

 

**06\. Born Another Gender**

He's used to having to put in a lot of effort. It helps that he's tall, but he's got curves that take hiding, and Mom would be horrified if he cut his hair. Has to remember to slouch just right, and not to swing his hips, and there's some fancy stuff he wouldn't mind wearing but has to resist in order to avoid tipping people off, and...

...and yet somehow, walking down the halls of the studio, all he has to do is tape on a lopsided fake mustache to have Wyatt greet him as "Hey, dude, what's up?"

Jess could get used to this.

 

**07\. Schoolfic**

Stupid Mom. Stupid Jessica's mom. Making Wyatt walk home with stupid Jessica, when he could be hanging out with his friends instead of having a stupid seven-year-old stupid skipping across the crosswalk with him.

"...and we used paint and we mixed up different colors and I painted this and Mom's gonna love it and..."

Wyatt kicked a half-crushed can across the sidewalk, trying to ignore stupid Jessica's babbling about her stupid painting.

"...and see, see? I painted _everyone!_ "

In spite of himself, Wyatt looked at the unrolled sheet of paper. A bunch of smudgy brown stick figures, with approximately the relative heights of her family, as far as he knew them. Also, someone blue and sparkly. "Uh, who's the...?"

Jessica's ponytail flopped in front of her face as she looked over the top of the painting, getting an upside-down view of the figure Wyatt was pointing at. "That's Siri! She's the magical fairy who lives in Mommy's phone!"

"Oh." Stupid kids and their stupid failure to grasp technology.

Moving her fingers around to point at one of the normal figures, Jessica added, "And that's _you!_ "

That got Wyatt's attention. Sure enough, the stick figure had a big fluffy black scribble-afro.

"Um, wow," said Wyatt to maybe-not-so-stupid-, damn-now-he-felt-all-guilty-Jessica. "Thanks."

 

**08\. Police/Firefighters**

Wyatt's having a hard time getting over the fear that he's turning into The Man. Jessica keeps having to distract him with how awesome she looks in the uniform.

 

**09\. Urban Fantasy**

Jessica stomped into the building shivering, dripping wet, and purple in the face. Literally.

"I know," she snapped, as Wyatt opened his mouth. "I get it. You warned me. Never forget the tribute to the subway fae. Easiest way to identify an out-of-towner. I'm an idiot. Not a word!"

Wyatt held up his hands. "Not where I was gonna go, I swear."

"Then what?" Jessica clapped her hands to her head, wide-eyed, feeling through her hair. "I don't have horns, do I? Fur? A tail? Oh my god, it's a tail, isn't it."

"All I wanted to say is, if you need some pixie dust to fix it up, there's an emergency bottle in the petty cash drawer."

Jessica stopped frantically clawing through her hair. "You are my new favorite person."

 

**10\. Harem**

_See:[I Am Qumarica (And So Can You!)](http://ptahrrific.dreamwidth.org/171870.html)_.

 


	8. Ten Olivia/Kristen AUs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing prompt for the following AUs:  
> 01\. Wild West  
> 02\. Cyberpunk  
> 03\. Shapeshifters  
> 04\. Pirates  
> 05\. …In SPACE!!  
> 06\. Born Another Gender  
> 07\. Schoolfic  
> 08\. Police/Firefighters  
> 09\. Urban Fantasy  
> 10\. Harem
> 
>  **Warning** for 1870s racism in Wild West, attempted non-con and death by sword in Pirates.
> 
> Olivia in Pirates is inspired by [Ching Shih](http://www.badassoftheweek.com/chingshih.html). Also, the Police/Firefighters are fantasy dragon-riding police, because I got tired of writing mundane settings.

**01\. Wild West**

Olivia makes honest money, but that doesn't mean every store will take it. Folks talk _free white labor_ and _got to discourage the coolies_ , and pretend not to notice her when she bangs on their counters.

Kristen buys things on her behalf sometimes. She's tempted to throw in a little extra, but if Olivia ever caught wind of the price difference it'd hurt her pride something fierce.

 

**02\. Cyberpunk**

The OLIVIA unit (Operational Lifeform Intended for Violence and Immediate Assassination, one of the scary ones) lies sprawled on the floor of the studio a meter and a half away from Jon's desk, where Kristen tasered it into quiescence seconds before it took the host's head off with one swift kick.

Jon is safely behind the yellow police tape, wrapped in a shock blanket and talking with some officers, while two other hackers stand over Kristen and watch her rearrange the wires under the OLIVIA's back panel. Officially they're there to supervise on behalf of the digital authorities; in practice they're there to stand back and hope they learn something from this.

It's a matter of minutes to change the unit's wireless frequencies, after which she can rewrite the code using her smartphone. By now even thumb-typing doesn't slow her down. The firewalls are hacked; the data copied in bulk to be examined for evidence later; the murderous personality templates wiped. There's a whole swath of free hard drive real estate waiting to be filled with anything she can torrent.

"Hey, Jon!" calls Kristen across the set. (The inspector talking to him looks annoyed, but tolerates the interruption.) "You want to start rectifying your lack of female correspondents?"

"Are you suggesting I _hire_ the android that tried to kill me?"

"War on women!" yells Kristen.

"It doesn't even have a gender! It's a robot!"

"War on artificial lifeforms!"

"Fine!" cries Jon. "Give it a funny personality and I'll give it an interview! But if it doesn't make me laugh, it doesn't get hired!"

Kristen grins and fires up her web browser. This is going to be _epic_.

 

**03\. Shapeshifters**

"Oh. My. God."

This is it. The pack warned her it would probably happen, but she, like an idiot, decided to go and take the chance. And now Olivia's freaking out. Well, of COURSE she's freaking out! Who wouldn't?

"You. Are. Adorable."

Wait. What?

Olivia scoots closer until they're almost nose-to-muzzle, searching Kristen's eyes. "Yep, totally still blue! The rumors are true! Can I rub your ears? Or is that, like, offensive? I'm sorry, they're just _so_ cute."

"You can rub whatever you want," says Kristen, and then realizes maybe that didn't come out right.

If Olivia notices, she saves the teasing for later. For now she squeals like an eight-year-old with a pony and buries her hands in the fur of Kristen's head and neck.

In spite of herself, Kristen's tail starts bobbing.

 

**04\. Pirates**

Katrien has always had some trouble with petticoats, but when one of the pirates shoves her into a different compartment of the twenty-gun junk from the rest of the people and items hauled off her doomed ship, she doesn't mind having a couple dozen extra layers of clothing. The man is ranting in Chinese, of which she knows maybe fifty words, but she has a hunch this can be roughly translated as "what stupid Dutch fashion designer decided to give people all these skirts?"

She kicks and flails (which would be more effective if her shoes hadn't already gone missing) and yells at him ("war on women" probably doesn't translate, but "stop" and a plethora of expletives have got to be making it across the language barrier), which seems to be temporarily working until his fist catches her in the temple and everything goes swimmy.

She's on her back on what feel like sacks of rice, rough burlap over grain...there are hands on her thighs, only one layer of cloth separating them from her bare skin, and then the cloth separating under the touch of a blade...

...and the blade goes wild, slicing shallowly through flesh before getting muffled in her skirts, as the guy is yanked back.

Her vision must be worse off than she thought. His head seems to be going in a different direction from his body.

A sharp Chinese command is snapped out in a higher voice, and shadowy figures begin to drag the body away. Their commander resolves into a slim figure, face painted and hair tied tightly back, in an outfit that seems oddly feminine (granted, most of her people's clothes read that way to Katrien, but still).

And sure enough, in the hand not holding a curved blade, she's carrying the would-be rapist's severed head by its tight plait of hair. His face has gone slack; there's blood dripping from the neck.

"Ugh," says Katrien eloquently. "Thanks. I hope."

The woman (another pirate?) snaps something at her now, in flat tones that grate on her still-ringing ears. She tries to remember how to say 'sorry, don't speak it' in Chinese, but all that's coming up is numbers and the names of various rice dishes.

And then the woman switches to what sounds like badly accented French.

"Huh?" says Katrien. Her leg stings like burning; a trickle of blood runs down it. "No.. _non, parlez pas français_...you speak Dutch?" The woman stares, blank; no surprise there. She tries again. "English?"

"English!" echoes the stranger. "You speak?" When Katrien nods, the woman sheathes her sword and holds up her hand. "How many fingers?"

"Three." She repeats it in Chinese, for good measure.

The woman grins and offers the hand to Katrien. "Good! Very good. You come now."

She's about to take it when something wet plops out of the still-dripping neck and lands on the floorboards next to the woman's boots. Katrien flinches away.

"You no afraid," the woman orders her. "Him fool. No good on ship of _soongleehwah_."

"Ship of...what?"

She taps her chest. "Sun Li-hua. Captain. Me."

Oh. Well.

"Katrien Schaal," sais Katrien to the woman, pirate, commander of a fleet, and takes her hand.

 

**05\. ...In SPACE!!**

When Kristen gets behind the controls of a Viper, she wraps her hand around the firing mechanism, opens her eyes until the whites show all around, and cackles like a genocidal madowman.

Up on the bridge, Olivia shivers and hopes nobody notices how much it turns her on.

 

**06\. Born Another Gender**

Kristen doesn't laugh, or disbelieve, or break out any of the creepy radfem sentiments he had spent a couple of anxiety attacks being convinced she would reveal.

She just purses her full lips and says, "So do you want us to start calling you Oliver now? Because that could get pretty confusing around here, but I'm sure we could try."

 

**07\. Schoolfic**

Olivia spends weeks resisting. She'd just as soon go in a T-shirt and jeans. It'll be awkward if she does something wrong, if she stands out more than they will already. Something something oppressive patriarchal standards of beauty something. (Words like that usually get Kristen's agreement; the order doesn't always matter.)

Finally Kristen says, "Look, I'm going to wear a stupidly fancy dress, first because I want to, and second as a giant screw-you to all the people who think I don't look good enough to rock a stupidly fancy dress. And if I were you, I would wear whatever says the giantest screw-you to the people who deserve it, whether that's a princess-type ball gown or an Iron Man T-shirt."

When they stroll into prom, Olivia's wearing a gathered royal-blue gown worthy of Disney, with flawless makeup and jewelry that sets off her eyes. Kristen's in emerald-green with black gloves and a gaudy feather-strewn handheld eye mask.

Granted, most of the stares are probably because they're holding hands, but somehow Olivia spends the whole night believing that she looks _good_.

 

**08\. Police/Firefighters**

The purse-snatcher is about five steps from the entrance to the subway station when Kristen lands in front of him.

"I don't think you want to do that," says Olivia cheerfully. "In fact, I'm thinking you can't wait to give that back. Normally I'm not a great psychic, but I have a good feeling about this one."

Kristen just grins. Her lips slowly unfurl back over dagger teeth.

The guy's eyes roll back in his head, and he keels over onto the cobblestones.

"I'll get the purse, you haul this guy to the station?" says Olivia. As she slides down off her partner's neck, Kristen nods.

Keeping crime down is a _lot_ easier when you have a were-dragon on the force.

 

**09\. Urban Fantasy**

Okay, Kristen's got this one. It's textbook. Deals and wishes lead to unthinkable awful fates, and conversation is the only thing known to lead to deals and wishes, so when it comes to the Fae, you don't talk. At all.

Of course, that leaves her standing awkwardly in the lobby of her building while the woman with glowing skin battles the mailbox next to hers.

The glow is pretty subtle. You wouldn't notice if you weren't paying attention, although that could be totally innocent, obviously, since Kristen's a Hunter and trained to be super-observant and all; it's not like you'd _have_ to be checking her out. Anyway, the faerie also has blue-black hair that's lifting slightly, like she's not bound by the same laws of gravity, or maybe just has really fantastic volumizing shampoo. And she probably knows half a dozen different unlocking spells, but since you're not allowed to use magic in the building outside your own rooms, she just keeps stabbing the key at different parts of the mailbox panel like she thinks it has a hidden catch somewhere.

Finally Kristen's inherent niceness gets the better of her common sense. "Here," she says, stepping around the faerie's shopping bags (junk food and designer clothes, respectively), "let me help you with that."

"Hm?" says the faerie. She has freckles (also glowing), and eyes that are practically golden (but otherwise normal).

"You just push the key in here." Kristen guides the metal up over the nameplate ( _Olivia Munn_ , also normal, surprisingly so) and eases it into the keyhole. "Gently now. Then twist until it clicks, and pull."

The front of the mailbox pops open, revealing a bill, a credit card offer, two adverts, and an issue of SkyMall.

Olivia lights up. "Thanks!" she exclaims, flashing white teeth as she scoops up the papers. "Can't get the hang of this mortal stuff, it's so embarrassing. I owe you one."

Great. That's it. Kristen has just sealed her own doom.

It's probably the fae-glamour talking, but she's not entirely convinced it wasn't worth it.

 

**10\. Harem**

_See:[I Am Qumarica (And So Can You!)](http://ptahrrific.dreamwidth.org/171870.html)_.


	9. The Heist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from [They Fight Crime](http://www.theyfightcrime.org/): _"He's a lonely dishevelled master criminal fleeing from a secret government programme. She's a virginal antique-collecting hooker with someone else's memories. They fight crime!"_

"So," said Wyatt, by way of making conversation, "were you just not a hooker for very _long_ , or...?"

"Shouldn't we not be making any noise right now?" whispered Olivia. Unscrewing bits of the skylight in the museum rotunda was already making enough of a racket. (The screws squeaked.)

"Which of us was the master criminal before they got nabbed by the Program?" said Wyatt pointedly. "Don't worry so much. As long as you follow my lead, we're gonna get your set of vintage pie plates back, I promise."

"Okay, okay." Olivia tried to scratch her leg through the skintight faux-leather catsuit. (It sounded cooler than it looked. Hers didn't fit right, and the harness didn't match at all, while Wyatt's matching one was just kind of scruffy.) "What they did to me was a memory thing, all right? I've got two sets. One where I was a lonely virgin growing up in Oklahoma, one where I was a high-priced call girl on the streets of Tokyo. No idea which one is mine."

"Ah." Wyatt pried off the wide hexagonal glass plate, attached his grappling hook, then frowned. "So, uh. Are you sure the plates are yours?"

"Nope," said Olivia. "Why? You gonna bail on me over that, Cenac?"

Frankly, Wyatt would have agreed to steal the Mona Lisa if it would get Olivia to keep hanging out with him. Not only was she a pretty cool person, but they hadn't exactly let him have a social life in the Program, which was a serious bummer. "Nah. Just curious."

He dropped a smoke grenade into the rotunda. It bounced off the central display case far below (some kind of fancy silverware; the pie plates, as they had scoped out earlier, were on the wall), and poofed out into the room. Only four lasers? This was going to be a piece of cake. (Or a piece of, well, you know.)

"So what did they do to you in the Program?" asked Olivia conversationally.

"Don't think I can really talk about it yet," admitted Wyatt, testing the grip of the zipline on his harness. Yeah, he was good to descend. "Let's just say it involved puppets."


	10. Nate Corddry and the Supply Closet of Doom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nate is the only person not getting any action in the Daily Show supply closet.
> 
> (Laura is an intern from early TCR, named but never seen.)

**I.**

Nathan Corddry is the youngest correspondent on _The Daily Show_ , and this means that he's always being used as a gopher by the senior correspondents. This wouldn't be so bad if his older brother weren't one of them. And, because Rob has no qualms about ordering Nate around, the rest of the crew follows his lead, feeling free to say at any time, "Hey, Rob's little brother, can you go get...?"

Today, for instance, he's in the break room when Jason Jones opens the fridge and some poor Coke can, shoved in at an awkward angle, tumbles out and starts dumping its carbonated contents across the floor. "Shoot," says Jason, grabbing a washcloth. "Hey, Rob's little brother, can you go grab the mop from the supply closet?"

While Jason picks up the can and wipes off his shoes, Nate heads down the hall. The dingy supply closet is the last door on the left down a dingy corridor; nobody ever comes this way without an errand to run. So when Nate hears activity from behind the closet door, his first thought is, _Burglars_.

His second is _Crazed fans, here to kidnap Jon._ His third is _Regular fans, sneaking in to see the show._

The door is open a crack; he tiptoes up and looks in. Then he wheels around and pretty much flies in the opposite direction.

The only face he'd seen was that of Ed Helms, but Nate grew up in the same house as Rob; he doesn't need to see his brother's face to identify him. He's never heard quite _this_ sound from Rob, though, and thank heaven.

Some little-brother-ish part of his mind suggests that this might be good blackmail material.

The rest is trying to convince itself that the whole thing never happened; and, when that fails, considering dousing itself in acid.

 

**II.**

Nate's walking past Jon's office next day, hearing the shuffle of papers and the chink of a stapler, when his boss calls, "Hey, Nate, could you go grab me a refill of staples, please?"

"Sure thing," replies Nate cheerfully. Jon always remembers his name; it's one of the many little things he does to make the job comfortable. On meeting him, Nate was a little intimidated - after all, this was _Jon Stewart_ , the most trusted name in fake news. But now he's gotten used to calling him "Jon", and doesn't mind being sent to the supply closet if it's by this man.

As he walks down the hall, Nate tries to ignore the images popping up in his head. It's his brother's day off today, and he happens to know that Ed is out on assignment, so there's no danger today. No sirree. His active repression of the subject can continue uninterrupted.

Nate even whistles as he walks down the hall.

 

As he dashes away _this_ time, scrubbing his eyes and praying that the couple in there this time was too preoccupied to hear him, he orders himself to pay better attention next time.

At least this one was less of a shock. After all, Jason's _married_ to Samantha. They have a daughter. Nate just hadn't realized there was a possibility she was conceived in the building.

 

**III.**

Rob's telling a story from back in the days of Stephen Colbert's time on the show, and everyone is in the break room listening, when Ed comes in and announces that there's no soap in the men's room. (He then grabs a donut from the table. The others cringe.)

"Hey, bro," says Rob. "Can you go get some more soap? Third shelf, on the left..."

Nate does a quick inventory of the room. Everyone's there except Jon; no embarrassing couples to walk in on. "I'm on it," he says, and walks out. He'll ask Rob about the story's ending later.

Still, Nate keeps his ears open as he approaches the supply closet. There's no danger today, but he's trying to get in the habit, for his own safety. As expected, there's no grunting or heavy breathing, so he pushes open the door a crack.

Two things Nate learns this day. One, Jon can enjoy himself very quietly. Two, Jon has a copy of the huge portrait-within-a-portrait that graces the set of _The Colbert Report_.

 

**IV.**

Lewis Black, fortunately, does everything very loudly.

Nate hears him yelling something that sounds like like "smoke that poll" from halfway down the hall, and turns promptly around. If Sam wants to make copies, Sam can get her own darn paper.

 

**V.**

The microwave breaks down.

It's an old microwave - it dates from the bygone days of the old studio, and Nate had heard tell that Craig Kilborn used to use it. Still, the correspondents are attached to it, and they want to take a shot at fixing it before they splurge on a new one.

It's a great bonding experience, all the Daily Show staff getting together to poke around at wires and reveal their complete lack of expertise, until someone decides to call Resident Expert John Hodgman.

John's catching his breath when he answers the phone. "We haven't interrupted anything, have we?" asks Jason.

"Yes, actually. I'm trying to check out my new Mac. What do you need?"

Jason outlines the problem. After a few sentences, John interrupts him. "Did you read the manual?"

The correspondent admits that he hasn't, and the expert advises them to do so and promptly hangs up.

 

**VI.**

One full-scale search of the building later, Sam remembers seeing the book in question in a box of manuals that got shoved in a closet and forgotten about, and Jon realizes that the closet was in the old studio.

"Someone could drive over and pick it up," he suggests. "I--"

"Let's take a vote," interrupts Sam. "I vote Nate do it."

"Seconded," says Ed.

Rob and Jason join in, and Nate agrees quickly, because he's not sure he wants the fate of the microwave to rest on Jon Stewart's hasty return from the Colbert Report studio.

 

When he gets there, someone must have called ahead, because an intern greets him at the door. "It's a little tense in here," she warns. "Russ Lieber's visiting - he's this liberal radio guy, Mr. Stephen fights with him a lot - and he's here for a debate, so Mr. Stephen's on edge."

"I can handle it," says Nate confidently. "He used to be a Daily Show correspondent just like me, after all."

The intern gives him a derisive look. "I don't know who _you_ are," she says severely, "but Mr. Stephen is _not_ like you. _He_ is his own show."

"You mean he _has_ his own show," corrects Nate tentatively.

"No, I mean he _is_ his new show. Here's the supply closet." She throws open the door, and Nate flinches out of habit - but it's deserted. Together they dig out the microwave manual, which is buried deep in a large cardboard box labeled LIGHT BULBS, and have awkward conversation, during which Nate learns that the intern's name is Laura.

"There. You found it," says Laura when it's retrieved. "Do you know the way out?"

"Um," fumbles Nate. "Er, no." He does, but Laura's cute; since he can't think of a clever statement to impress her into staying with him a little longer, this is his next best idea.

"Come on, then," she sighs, and leads him out. As they pass the break room door, she stops. "Just a second. I want to grab a donut while we're here."

She throws open this door too, then yanks it shut in a hurry, but not before Nate catches the back of a man with curly brown hair and a tan jacket, engaged in passionate liplock with--

"I, I, I'll get the donut later," stutters Laura, hand tightly gripping the closed door's knob. "So sorry you had to see that, that's not normal, I swear, I ..."

"It's okay," says Nate with a nonchalant shrug. "I'm used to it."

Laura looks at him with a new appreciation, and Nate smiles hopefully.

 

**VII.**

After dropping off the manual, Nate retreats to the relative solitude of his double office. Half an hour later, there's a knock on the door.

"Who is it?"

"'S me, bro."

"Oh. C'mon in."

Rob shuts the door behind him and takes a seat on the broken swivel chair facing Nate's cluttered desk. "You feeling all right, kid?"

"Yeah, sure." Nate doesn't look up.

"No, you're not. Dude, talk to me. What's up?"

Nate looks at his brother (Rob seems genuinely concerned), looks away (he isn't sure he wants to let Rob know he knows), looks back, looks away, takes a deep breath, meets Rob's eyes, and says, " _Ed?_ seriously, what do you _see_ in him?"

Rob's face registers shock, then amusement, then settles into his deadpan commentator mode. "So. You saw us."

"Only for a second," Nate backtracks quickly. But now that he's begun, he can't resist adding, "And then Jason and Sam, and then, well, maybe I shouldn't say, but then someone else, and then, and then ..."

"Ahhhh." Rob grins. "You've got the Corddry Curse."

Nate's embarrassment is cut off by curiosity. "The what?"

"The Curse. You keep walking in on people in the middle of ... intimate acts. I had the same problem."

"Really?"

"Sure! Man, I remember this one time I was looking for a spare bulb, and I nearly tripped over Mo Rocca and, as it turned out, Vance DeGeneres ..."

"Okay, stop, stop! I don't need to hear the details."

"Right, right. Sorry." Rob shakes his head. "Point is, it's not just you. This happens all the time. Don't stress about it, okay? By now it's pretty much an open secret what people do around here."

"Yeah, well, I wish someone had told _me_ that," grumbles Nate. "And can't you guys find somewhere more private than the supply closet?"

"I'll bring it up at the next staff meeting," his brother promises. "And, you know - we're a pretty tolerant bunch, here. If you're ever interested in someone, and maybe want a little help bringing him around ..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Nate cuts him off. "Actually, I have a date Friday with a _Colbert Report_ intern. A _female_ intern," he adds, lest there be any confusion.

Rob stands up. "Good luck," he says brightly. "Although Demetri is going to be crushed."

 

**VIII.**

If Demetri was pining over Nate, it didn't last long. The next day, Nate walks into the supply closet, looking for batteries, and finds the Trendspotter in a compromising position with Dan Bakkedahl. So that's all right.

Besides, Nate now has a new story to tell on his completely heterosexual second date with Laura next week.

Things are looking up.

 

**Postscript.**

(Rob offers to tell Nate details about what Rachel Harris got up to with "Money Bunny" Nancy Walls before the latter's marriage to Steve Carell. This time, Nate accepts.)


	11. Four Times Aasif Shared His Food (And One Time Someone Shared With Him)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five stories about Aasif, the whole crew of correspondents, various types of food, and an Important Life Lesson about sharing.
> 
> Mostly gen, with a bit of Sam/Jason threesomeing.

**एक / One.**

 

"Who took my ham sandwich?"

Leaning forward, John Oliver fixed his visitor with his most solemn Investigative Reporter stare. In a tone of great intellectual curiosity, he said, "Can you tell us what it looked like?"

"What do you mean, what it looked like?" demanded Aasif. "It's a sandwich. Bread on the outside, meat in the middle bit. It was in the break room fridge, and now it's not. Which means someone took it. So was it you?"

"Wasn't either of us," said Rob. "But, listen, if you want a replacement, there's this great little deli right down the street..."

"Uh-uh. I'm not leaving this building. Do you realize audience members are already lining up out there?"

For a program Aasif had barely heard of before he started contributing, _The Daily Show_ had a terrifyingly devoted fan base. He didn't regret accepting the promotion to full correspondent, but he was starting to appreciate the drawbacks.

"Yeah, excited teenage fangirls can be pretty scary," agreed Rob, subtly flexing his arms. "Want some muscle to escort you?"

Aasif held up his hands as he backed out of the office. "I'll pass. But if you hear anyth—whoa!"

"Hey!" yelped Sam's voice, letting him know who he had crashed into. "Watch where you're going, new guy!"

"Sorry, sorry!" Aasif backed away in a hurry. If you weren't at least a little bit scared of Sam, you weren't paying attention.

Her husband, behind her, was sort of hunched over, like she was dragging him down the hall on an invisible leash. Still, he winked at Aasif with a healthy amount of friendliness. "Nothing personal. We're just waiting for you to lose that new-guy smell."

Aasif decided not to complain that he had started contributing seven months ago, had in fact helped haze Rob shortly after that. Safer to just accept the role. "Any chance either of you would have stolen a new-guy-smell sandwich?"

Sam wrinkled her nose in concentration. "Maybe. What did it look like?"

"Oh, for the love of—"

"Hey, guys! Glad I caught you all together," broke in the charming voice of their illustrious host. Aasif had already gotten over the need to stand at attention when Jon Stewart entered the room, but he did take the hint and cut short his budding tirade; John and Rob also stuck their heads out the door to listen. "We've got an interview with this guy who's working on cloning meat, and I need a representative to fly out and handle it. Any takers?"

The correspondents exchanged a look, a compressed version of a complicated five-way exchange. Jon waited patiently, munching on a snack he must have forgotten to put down, during the silent negotiation: _Anyone really eager to do this, so I should hold back? No? Great. Anyone desperate to get out of it, so I should come to their rescue? None of that either? All right. Now we can get to the dice-rolling._

Then Aasif looked back at Jon, and realized what he was holding.

"Hey, is that my sandwich?"

Jon glanced down at the bread in his hand. "What, this? No, I got it out of the fridge."

"That's where I left it! That's mine!"

"Are you sure? Because it kind of tasted like ham." Jon peeled apart the layers of bread. "Probably because it is. Aren't you not supposed to eat this stuff?"

"You're one to talk!"

"Hey!" interrupted Sam, clamping a hand down on Aasif's shoulder. "Semi-new-guy! You know one of the things we do in this place? We share."

♦

**द्वि / Two.**

 

As he opened the back doors of the _Daily Show_ press van, Aasif was hit by a wave of stale air. Seven correspondents working a convention all day with no showers will do that.

"Sorry I'm late, guys," he said, slinging himself up over the rear bumper and squeezing into his seat, knees pressed together, greasy fast food bag held to his chest.

He was greeted with dead silence and wide-eyed stares.

Aasif forced a nervous laugh. "So, anyone get any really great sound bites today?"

"No," replied John dully, licking his lips. "Not a lot of 'bites'."

"Is that food?" added Sam, eyes locked onto Aasif's lap. "Smells like food."

"It's just nuggets and fries," admitted Aasif. "So it's on the borderline."

He jumped as a shadow fell over the chair: Larry, Rob, and Wyatt, still in their hoodies and bandanas from earlier that day, were towering above him. Rob in particular glared down at Aasif, over massive folded biceps. "I hope you brought enough to share."

"Come on, guys." Aasif resisted the temptation to laugh. "Are you trying to intimidate me with the same routine we used on Anderson Cooper this afternoon? Because it doesn't work when I know you. Larry, you got that shirt at Nordstrom's. Wyatt, that's not a gang sign, it's American Sign Language for 'algebra'."

The would-be gang slouched awkwardly. "Sorry, man," said Wyatt, shoulders hunched. "It's just...we haven't gotten a whole lot to eat today, what with all the hard work of trying to find politicians saying stupid things, and we're really, really hungry. You know?"

"Hey, any of you could have dropped by a fast food place too." With that, Aasif quit craning his neck to look up at them...

...and promptly came face to face with Jason, who was kneeling at his feet and pouting like a basset hound.

"Aw, come on," protested Aasif weakly. "Don't look at me like that. They'll have food back at the hotel. It's not like I'm starving you, here...."

Jason didn't say a word. He just stuck out his lower lip a little bit farther, let his eyes mist a little bit more.

Aasif sighed.

"Fine," he grumbled, holding the bag at arm's length. "Dig in."

"Mr. Mandvi, you are an angel," gushed John. Aasif barely heard it over the rest of the mob.

♦

**त्रि / Three.**

 

The gnawing in Aasif's stomach had just receded to a dull but ignoreable ache when an intern showed up with a three-box-high stack of jelly donuts, and a five-minute break in the writing was declared to polish them off.

He was resolutely focused on the clock (three minutes, twenty-two seconds to go) when Wyatt nudged him with an elbow. "Hey, A-man. You better hurry, or somebody's gonna take yours."

"I don't mind."

This startled Wyatt enough that he stopped wolfing down his own prize. "You sure?" he asked, around a mouthful of dough and powdered sugar. "Have you tried them? Because they're really good."

"I'll pass."

"Like, really good," continued Wyatt. "Amazingly good. Orgasmically good. Just one bite, you won't regret it, I promise...."

"Dude!" interrupted Jason from across the table. "Lay off! He's got the thing, okay?"

"What?"

"The thing," repeated Jason, gesturing with his hand as if he could snatch the word out of the air. "The Muslim thing. The not-eating thing. The bettering-yourself-spiritually-through-ritual-expression-of-devotion-by-fasting-during-daylight-hours...thing."

Sam sighed. "Ramadan, dear."

"Yeah, that!" Jason flashed a grateful crooked smile at his wife, then snapped back to Wyatt with a stern glare. "That thing."

"Ooh." Wyatt swallowed sheepishly. "Sorry about that. Didn't know."

"Don't worry about it." Aasif glanced at the clock, then realized he had completely lost track of time. Huh.

"Hey, uh," added Wyatt, hesitating (but only long enough to lick strawberry jam from his fingers), "if you're not eating right now, can I have your donut?"

He looked so earnest that Aasif had to smile. "Go for it."

♦

**चतुर् / Four.**

 

The local Tandoori Palace has never catered a movie premiere before, but Aasif figures he kind of owed it to them.

All the current correspondents are in the crowd, along with a few alumns. Even Colbert showed up, though he seems to have smuggled in a bucket of his own seven-meat chili. Not that Aasif minds, not when everyone else is enjoying the food (or at least, making a valiant effort at picking through it).

More importantly, they're all talking about how much they enjoyed the movie. He's lost count of how many times he's been slapped on the back. To say nothing of the fact that Jason just sidled up and offered to congratulate him _more extensively_ after dinner, _if-you-know-what-I-mean_ , wink, wink.

Jason has barely moved on before the next admirer steps into place place. "Tremendous film, Aasif," Jon pronounces, a half-finished plate of chicken tikka masala in front of him and a splotch of what looks like korma sauce on the front of his shirt. "Now, do you actually know how to make all these dishes?"

"Of course," deadpans Aasif. "What kind of lousy chef do you think I am? I made this whole meal, couldn't you tell?"

Jon breaks into his trademark startled-rabbit expression, the one he always gets when you say something outrageous in a loud voice with a straight face. There's no way the crew would tease him half so much if he didn't look so adorable when you play with him.

Aasif lets him squirm for a moment, then decides to have mercy. "Kidding," he grins. "You'll want to talk to Madhur; he's the guy with the cooking show. Here, I'll introduce you."

"You did get sort of inspired by the food and culture you grew up with, though, right?" continues Jon, as he and Aasif thread their way among the tables to where Madhur and a film critic from the _Times_ are talking.

"Yeah, sure. Why?"

Jon shrugs. "It was nice, having a glimpse into your background. I appreciated it. That's all I wanted to say."

Aasif is absolutely not blushing. Not in the least.

♦

**पञ्च / Five.**

 

Jason tastes like kozhukatta, all coconut and sugar and just a dash of cardamom, and Aasif wonders vaguely whether the man even bothered with dinner or just skipped straight to dessert.

But only vaguely, because he's being pushed down onto a plush hotel bed at the time, which means that most of his attention is on the hips rocking against his, on tangling one hand through Jason's curls and pulling the man in for another kiss.

"You're absolutely certain Sam won't mind?" he asks for the third time, after getting a chance to catch his breath while Jason nibbles on his earlobe.

"Mmmm." Expert hands dispose of his tie and start unbuttoning his shirt. (His dinner jacket and black socks are already lying forgotten in a corner.) "She might be a little mad that we're starting without her...."

"What?"

Exactly on cue, the door buzzes to announce an entry. Aasif yelps and clutches his shirt closed; Sam, oblivious to his distress, plops down on the other double bed and starts kicking off her shoes.

"Aw, honey, you couldn't ask Aasif if he wanted to do that first?" protests Jason, now propped up on his elbows over Aasif's prone and half-dressed body. He's not a large guy, but Aasif is still grateful for the shield.

"Sorry, dear, but it couldn't wait," declares Sam, now shedding jewelry. "My feet were killing me. Nothing up against the wall tonight, I'm afraid." She glances down at Aasif. "How come he looks so freaked out?"

"Dunno. Hey, Aasif, you okay there?"

"F-fine," stammers Aasif. "It's just, uh...." He nods apologetically in Sam's direction, and confesses, in a small voice, "She kind of scares me."

Sam lets out a theatrical gasp. "Scary? Me? Don't be ridiculous. I'm a total pussycat." She adds her rings to the watch and string of pearls lying on the end table, then stops to strike a pose, smiling prettily at Jason. "Isn't that right, sugar lump?"

"Absolutely, muffincakes."

Aasif swallows. From this position he really can't help but notice the swell of Sam's breasts, and there's a faint suggestion of crimson under her shirt that he's pretty sure is not a natural skin tone, and, well, to make a long story short, he's suddenly very interested in finding out whether she tastes like coconut.

But old habits die hard, especially the ones designed for survival.

"Listen, I just want to be absolutely clear," he says, interrupting the increasingly sugary ocular lovefest the other two have going on. "This _is_ an offer of a hot threesome, and not some kind of weird prelude to you murdering me for getting busy with your husband, right?"

Smirking, Sam hops over to join them, knees bouncing on the bedspread.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" she demands, arching against Jason in a way that sets both men shuddering with anticipated ecstasy. "One of the things we do at this show? We share."


End file.
